THAT FICKLE MATTY.
"Well, doctor, and where are you off to now?" The speaker was the
doctor's wife. "I do think it's unreasonable of people," continued this
good lady, "to send for you just when you are sitting down to your
comfortable breakfast, and you so particular as you are about your
coffee."
"Who is it, Mary Anne? Who's the messenger from?" turning to the
maid-servant, who stood in a waiting attitude half-in, half-out of the
door.
"Oh, it's only the Bells. You needn't hurry off to the Bells, Tom."
"As well they as another," retorted Dr. Morris "Tell the messenger I'll
be round directly, Mary Anne. Now, what's the matter, old lady? Why
should you fidget yourself, and have such a spiteful tone when the Bells
are mentioned?"
"Oh, I'm sick of them, and their airs and affectations," growled Mrs.
Morris, who suddenly put on her thickest and most bronchial tones. "What
with their afternoon tea, and their grand at-homes, and the ridiculous
way they've been going on about that little Matty lately, I really lose
all patience with them. What's the consequence of all this kind of
thing? Mrs. Bell chokes up her small drawing-room so full of visitors
who only come to laugh at her, that one can't breathe comfortably there
without the window open, and a fine fresh bronchitis I've got in
consequence. You feel me, doctor. I'm all shivering and burning, I'm
going to be very ill, there isn't a doubt of it."
"Your pulse hasn't quickened," said the doctor, "it's as steady as my
own."
"Oh, well, if you don't choose to believe in the sufferings of your
wife, exhibited before your very eyes, go to your Bells, and comfort
them."
"Now, Jessie, don't talk nonsense, old lady. You know I'm the first to
believe you bad if you are. But what's this about Beatrice Meadowsweet?
Is she really engaged to young Bertram?"
"It's the gossip, Tom. But maybe it isn't the case. I'll call to see
Mrs. Meadowsweet this morning, and find out."
"I would if I were you. Beatrice is a fine girl, and mustn't throw
herself away."
"Throw herself away! Why, it's a splendid match for her. A most
aristocratic young man! One of the upper ten, and no mistake."
"That's all you women think about. Well, I'm off to the Bells now."
The doctor presently reached that rather humble little dwelling where
the Bell family enjoyed domestic felicity.
He was ushered in by the maid, who wore an important and mysterious
face. Mrs. Bell quickly joined him, and she looked more important and
mysterious still.
"Matty isn't well," she said, sinking her voice to a stage whisper.
"Matty has been badly treated; she has had a blight."
"Dear, dear!" said Doctor Morris.
He was a fat, comfortable-looking man, his hands in particular were very
fat, and when he warred to show special sympathy he was fond of rubbing
them.
"Dear, dear!" he repeated. "A blight! That's more a phrase to apply to
the potato than to a blooming young girl."
"All the same, doctor, it's true. Matty has been blighted. She had set
her young affections where they were craved and sought, and, so to
speak, begged for. She gave them, _not willingly_, doctor, but
after all the language that melting eyes, and more melting words, could
employ. _The_ word wasn't spoken, but all else was done. She gave
her heart, doctor, not unasked, and now it's sent back to her, and she's
blighted, that's the only word for it."
"I should think so," said the doctor, who was far too professional to
smile. "A heart returned like that is always a little difficult to
dispose of. Might I ask who--but perhaps you'd rather not tell me?"
"No, Doctor Morris, I'd rather tell you; I've sent for you to tell you,
and it isn't so much that I blame him, poor young man, for it was all
managed between his mother and Beatrice, all, from the very first, and
it's my firm belief that he had neither part nor parcel in it. I did
what I could, as in duty bound, to give him his chances, but those
designers were too many for me."
"You don't mean," said the doctor--he really did not concern himself
much about Northbury gossip, and no rumors of Matty's flirtations had
reached him--"You don't mean Captain Bertram? Why, I have just heard he
is engaged to Beatrice. You can't mean Captain Bertram? Impossible."
"I do mean Captain Bertram, doctor. No more and no less. And I'll thank
you not again to mention the name of that siren, Beatrice, in my
presence. Now if you'll come upstairs, I'll show you the poor blighted
child."
Mrs. Bell had insisted on Matty's staying in bed. After the first awful
shock of Mrs. Butler's news had subsided, she had made up her mind that
the only _rôle_ left to her daughter was that of the dying martyr.
All the town should know that Beatrice had robbed her friend, and that
this young and innocent friend was now at death's door.
Alice and Sophy were both in the room with their sister, and they were
expatiating very loudly on what they considered "ma's cruelty."
"You know perfectly, Matty, that he never cared for you," remarked the
candid Sophy. "It was all ma's folly from first to last."
"First to last," echoed Alice.
"And you're not really ill," pursued Sophy. "You slept very sound all
last night."
"And snored," continued Alice.
"Only ma will make a fuss, one way or other," proceeded Sophy. "Now
you're to be the forsaken one, and what ma would like would be for your
funeral bell to toll the day Bee has her wedding chimes."
"And we all love Bee," said Alice.
"And we'd like to go to her wedding," said Sophy. "Wouldn't you, Matty?
Say, now, if you were going to have a new white muslin for it?"
It was at this juncture that the doctor and Mrs. Bell entered the room.
For a blighted invalid Matty did not look pale, and the doctor, who
quickly discovered that there was no broken heart in the case, ordered
his _régime_ with a certain dry sense of humor, anything but
comforting to the poor little victim.
"Miss Matty requires rest," he said. "Absolute rest. And freedom from
all undue excitement. I should recommend for the next few days, complete
confinement to her bed with a simple diet; _no_ tea nor coffee, nor
any stimulants. Keep her quiet, Mrs. Bell, for while the illness
lasts--I give it no name--under which she is laboring, she will have no
desire, except to keep herself solitary."
"And you think that will effect a cure, doctor?" asked Mrs. Bell, whose
eyes had forced up a little moisture. "The child is frail, oughtn't she
to be nourished?"
"In the way I prescribed, my dear madam. Milk diet, without stimulants.
I'll see you again in a couple of days, Miss Matty."
"And you say she's not to get up, doctor?"
"On no account, until I call again."
The doctor departed, and Matty submitted to the remarkably dull life
laid out for her.
In the course of the afternoon Mrs. Bell went out. To each friend she
met she made the same remarks:
"Matty is very ill. I'm dreadfully anxious about her. Dr. Morris is in
close attendance. She's to be kept strictly to her bed, and the greatest
care has to be exercised to maintain her feeble strength. It's a heavy
trial to have one's child so ill--and from such a cause."
"Dear, dear," the sympathizing neighbor would answer. "What can be the
matter, and Matty always looked so fresh and hearty? Do you think she
has gone and taken anything, Mrs. Bell? Some people prophesy that we are
to have an epidemic of small-pox. It can't be that, surely? Taken so
sudden too, for she was about yesterday."
"Small-pox!" retorted Mrs. Bell, with withering scorn. "As if a child of
mine who had her vaccination beautifully would have small-pox! No, no,
it's heart-blight, neighbor, it's heart-blight, and I doubt if my girl
will ever get over it."
"Eh, ah--you don't say so," the neighbor would instantly retort. Now the
listener was full of intense curiosity, and longing to learn everything.
Matty Bell ill with a heart affair! No wonder her mother looked
troubled. Ah, men were deceivers ever! And who had dared to trifle with
her young affections?
Then Mrs. Bell would sigh deeply, and lower her voice, and point in the
direction of the Manor. It wasn't for her to name names, but a certain
young man had gone far, very far. Why, they could bring an action
against him, only they'd scorn to make public their poor child's
feelings. Well, well, he might lead another bride, a certain designer,
to the altar, but there would be no luck nor happiness for either of
them, that Mrs. Bell would say.
It was in this manner that the good lady spread the report which she
desired through the gossiping little town. Rapidly did the little piece
of gossip swell and magnify. It even travelled into the country, and so
huge did its dimensions grow there, that it not only killed Matty, but
buried her, and placed a beautiful tablet in white marble over her
grave, erected by the repentant Captain Bertram and the remorseful
Beatrice Meadowsweet.
Meantime the dying martyr had a very dull time in her bed. She was not
the kind of girl to love very deeply--her mother had done her utmost to
make the poor child fall in love with Captain Bertram, but when all was
said he had only managed to tickle her vanity. Now she considered that
he had put her to shame and derision, and she began to dislike him very
much. Her sisters fostered this dislike with the tales they brought in
from the outside world.
"You're the laughing-stock of the town," Alice would say. "Everybody is
talking about you, and having a laugh at you. You needn't suppose that
you are pitied, for you are not."
"Oh," groaned Matty. "How I wish, how I do wish, I had never met that
horrid, odious man."
"He's not horrid nor odious at all," retorted the practical Sophy. "He
looks lovely when he walks about with Beatrice. I saw them yesterday in
the Green, and Beatrice came up at once and asked about you. What do you
think ma did, Matty? She turned her back on Bee and sailed away. Poor
Bee quite colored up, and didn't know what to make of it."
"They say Beatrice is to have a lovely wedding," said Alice. "And Mr.
Ingram is going to have the whole church decorated with flowers. And a
bishop is coming down from London to marry them. And Mr. Ingram is going
to give Beatrice away himself, for he says she's like a daughter to him.
And there's to be another great party at the Rectory the day of her
wedding, Matty, and lots of fire-works in the evening."
"Oh, dear," sighed Matty, "I think Captain Bertram is a very base man."
"You'd better give up that idea," said Alice, "for no one else agrees
with you. You know perfectly he never paid you attentions. It was all ma
who would think so. And you know, Matty, you can't deny it--you did try
to squeeze his hand the first day he danced with you."
"I didn't," said Matty, flushing all over with indignation. "I think you
both are cruel. I've had a very heavy trial, and you neither of you
sympathize a bit. And I'm sure," continued Matty, in a plaintive voice,
"not the least part of it is being stuck in bed now."
"I wonder you stay," said Sophy. "You're in perfect health."
"No, I'm not. Dr. Morris is very anxious about me."
"He isn't. No one is anxious about you. There isn't a thing the matter,
except that you and ma like that you should pose as the dying martyr.
Well, good-bye. Sophy and I are going to have some fun this evening."
"Fun, where? Do tell me."
"At the Jenkinses. Their brother Gus has come home; you know how you and
Gus used to flirt long ago, Matty. Well, he's back for a fortnight. He
has a long red beard, and his face is all over freckles, but he's full
of fun, and he laughs like anything. We saw him and he asked for you.
It's a pity you can't come."
"Why can't I come? I don't see why I can't come as well as you."
"Oh, well, we thought you were the dying martyr. Mrs. Jenkins asked us
all in to tea, and we are to have tennis afterwards, and then high
supper, in honor of Gus. We said you couldn't come, but that we would be
there. Alice, it's time for us to dress now. We'll wear our muslins with
the pink spots, and those sweet new pink sashes that we got in exchange
for the old teapot from Mrs. Middlemass last week. Come along, Alice.
We'll show ourselves to you when we are dressed, Matty."
The girls skipped lightly away, and Matty fidgeted and tossed in her
small hot bed.
The house was intensely quiet. Mrs. Bell was away, having taken
advantage of a proffered lift from a neighbor to drive into the country
to purchase some plums. Matty thought how intolerably dull her evening
would be. She reflected on the pleasures of the Jenkinses' tea-party;
she thought it would be nice, more than nice, to shake hands again with
Mr. Gus. Why shouldn't she go? What was to prevent her? Only her
mother's whim. Only the doctor's orders. But both doctor and mother were
now far away. She would go, she would defy them both.
Slipping out of bed she flew across the room and drew the bolt of the
door. Then she began to dress in quick and nervous haste. She put on her
daintiest shoes, and open-work stockings. She arranged her limp hair
with care, and finally she donned the gorgeous shot-silk.
The few days in bed had taken away some of her burnt appearance, and
slightly moderated her high color. She looked really almost nice as she
skipped to the door, and showed herself to her astonished sisters.
"I'm coming, too," she said.
"Then you are cured," said Alice. "I'm glad of it, I'm sure. What did I
say, Sophy, when I was coming in."
"You said if anyone could mend up Matty it would be Gus," retorted
Sophy.
That fickle Matty blushed. It was a way she had.